


One Fine Day

by Are



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, First Time, Fluff and Angst, HP: EWE, M/M, Quidditch, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Are/pseuds/Are
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The caster was guaranteed one flawless day: one day to see what their life could have been like, if they had altered their actions in one crucially important moment. It promised closure. It was everything that he needed. It couldn't hurt anything, Draco thought, to cast such a spell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Fine Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flippyspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippyspoon/gifts).



> My first Drarry fic in a decade- hoohoo it feels weird but excellent to be back, guys! This story started out as a little 10,000 word or so idea and has grown INTO A HUGE MONSTROUSLY LONG FIC AHHH!!!!!! It's going to be three parts- part one is up now and hopefully part two will be up within the week, and part three a week after that. I wrote it for my best friend, but I hope it's ended up as something all Drarry shippers can enjoy!!!!

PART ONE

  


Draco Malfoy lay flat against the weedy tarmac, his back warm where it touched the ground, and watched Harry Potter fly in lazy circles up above the rest of the Knockturn Knickers, looking for the gleam of the snitch between the low rooftops of muggle buildings. The wind, strong today, was kicking up dust and making the players move erratically- a page of the _Prophet_ that had come loose from someone's paper blew in a spectral circle around the yard. Draco could just make out the headline: _**Hooded Figure Strikes Again!**_ -before it was caught on an updraft and swirled away into the cloudy sky.

They- the Knickers, that was- they weren't breaking the _law_ , or anything- not that Draco could have even if he'd been so inclined, not considering the ridiculous terms of his endless probation. They _weren't_ breaking it, though- the whole dingy, derelict courtyard was thoroughly charmed, as were the windows of the muggle buildings that flanked two sides. The wizarding buildings that flanked the _other_ two sides were charmed as well, but less out of necessity and more because the practices could be noisy and inelegant.

"It's right behind you, Potter, pay attention!" Draco yelled, cupping his hand around his mouth. It was a lie- Draco hadn't seen a bit of gold since practice had begun. Potter whirled back on his broom, craning his neck 'round, and Draco laughed.

"Cut it out, Malfoy, or it'll be the penalty box for you," said Ngô, pointing ominously to the far corner of the yard. Draco stopped laughing immediately, and composed his features in what he hoped was an expression of apology. Ngô was both captain and coach, and, as far as Draco could tell, the only person who took the minor-minor leagues seriously, save for the _other_ minor-minor team captains- and Weasley. Weasley took it _too_ seriously- the penalty box, actually a derelict clawfoot tub that someone had abandoned outdoors, had been instituted by Ngô as a way to stay Weasley's enthusiasm. If Weasley got too belligerent, he was forced into the tub for no less than one quarter hour, to 'relax'.

Unfortunately for Draco, heckling your own teammates was a penalty-box-worthy crime, and- as he was perhaps the worst offender- he was sent to the tub nearly as often as Weasley, much to the delight of Potter and the others. Potter had only ever been in the stupid tub _once_ , because he had matured into a consummate sportsman. Of course. He had somehow ended up disgustingly laid back, even when they lost to other teams, or when it rained all practice and no amount of drying charms could keep you from being soaked and miserable.

Not that the Knickers lost all that often. The irregular schedule of matches- worked around people with families and jobs and other myriad obligations- normally ended in victories for their team; mostly because of Potter. Potter should have been in the majors, or even the regular minors- he was too skilled for the minor-minors. Ngô had looked at Potter with purest love that Draco had even seen on another person's face when they had won the previous spring's championship. Ngô had also cradled the three-sickle championship trophy like it had been made of solid unicorn horn, but Draco wasn't here to judge. Much. Just to play a little Quidditch.

Vienne Ngô, hovering directly above Draco's head, cast _Tempus_ and gasped at the time.

"Tuan!" She said, drifting down towards her husband. "I've got to pick up Amy-"

"Oh, sorry, forgot the time, love," Ngô said, and pointed at Draco, who got to his feet and grabbed his broom.

"Switch off with her, Malfoy. Don't complain, neither. You're gonna' be playing Chaser against the Prats in four days, and you're gonna' be _excellent_ , because you may be a second-string Seeker, but you're a-"

" _First-string Chaser,_ oh, Merlin, yes, _spare_ me," Draco said, rudely- he had heard the speech before- and he ignored Ngô's scowl as he kicked off into the air. Ngô had forever been on an irritating campaign about Draco being better suited to Chaser than Seeker, and wouldn't he prefer being on the field all the time to just subbing in when Potter was tired or unavailable?

The answer was yes and no, Draco thought, as the game resumed. Seeker was the best position, everybody knew that.

 _And if you can't have the best,_ Draco thought, tilting his chin up, his eyes tracing the arc of Potter's broom as he drifted over the London skyline- _what's the point in having anything at all?_

 

* * *

  


Mr. Bashy was waiting for Draco when he returned to his flat. She- Mr. Bashy was a witch, but went by "Mister", as all probation officers, apparently, did- was early, which was rare. Bashy was ever-late, often sporting robes adorned with cat hair or crumbs, and of an irritatingly diplomatic, even-keeled disposition. How she had gotten into Ministry work Draco had no idea. Mr. Bashy's own Mr. Bashy- that is to say, her husband- was a Muggleborn- a pointed move on the part of Mbenga, Draco was sure- and she brought Draco books by the dozens, some written by wizards, but most written by Muggles. Draco groaned at the armful of books she carried with her.

"I can't, I'm not even finished with the last batch you gave me-" he protested, letting her in.

"Oh, but these are really good, I've just reread a few of them," Mr. Bashy said, not heeding Draco's words at all, and dumped the books on the table. Draco read their spines: _Hope From Within: A Guidebook for The Children of Malignant Narcissists_ ,by Drs. Kay and John LeBrondeau, _Star Wars: Dark Force Rising,_ by Timothy Zahn, _The Wolf & the Dove _by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, _The Giver_ , by Lois Lowry, _Mrs.Prettywit's Practical Dreamspells For Self-Healing_ , by Mrs. Prettywit herself, _A Wrinkle In Time-_

"Hold on, I've _read_ this one already," Draco said, picking up the last book. "You brought it a few months ago. It was a _children's_ book, too- I told you I wouldn't read another children's book, not after that stupid one about the tree that gave all its apples away!"

"Oh? Damn it all," Mr. Bashy said, making an 'o' with her mouth and pushing air out in an exaggerated huff. "I looked everywhere for my copy and went out and got you a new one-"

"You already gave me your copy," Draco said. "And forgot to take it back. I left it there with the ones I've finished."

The worst part was, Draco did read most of the books. He felt he _had_ to. As far as the terms of his probation, he was subject to Mr. Bashy's every whim until his twenty-third birthday, and that was _ages_ away.

"Well...." Mr. Bashy considered. "You can keep one then- but _this_ one, not the other- I like the older cover better-"

"I didn't even _enjoy_ that book," Draco said, but Mr. Bashy was already asking about his week.

  


* * *

 

  


All of the humiliations that Draco had to suffer in the years after the war were Mbenga's fault.

Mbita Mbenga, newly appointed to the Wizengamot after the overthrow of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, had a flair for... creative sentencing.

"You seem to have lived a life filled with the most negative sorts of influences, Mr. Malfoy," Mbenga had said, looking over her spectacles at Draco in a way that had reminded him uncomfortably of Albus Dumbledore.

Mbenga was huge and broad, and Draco had the distinct, uncomfortable thought that even without her wand, she could lift him off of the ground by his collar if he gave her the slightest bit of cheek. So he swallowed any sarcastic replies and nodded, soberly, looking at the floor in front of her desk.

"I think that it would be advisable to leave you on your own for a while and see what sort of wizard you develop into," Mbenga had said, after a pause. "That means communication with your... family will be limited to owls and Floo conversations for the next year. You are not to leave London for eighteen months, and your apparition license will be suspended for twenty-four months. You will spend no less than _three_ hours a week within Muggle areas of London, interacting with non-magical peoples and learning about their culture. You will meet with a court-appointed probation officer once a week-"

"But I'm not _under_ probation! We were pardoned! We were all pardoned!" Draco said, feeling his face get hot. He hadn't meant to say anything, but it was-

"Mr. Malfoy," Mbenga said, holding up one ring-covered hand. "To be clear. I have been put in charge of you. You are under whatever I _say_ you are under until _whenever_ I say you are not. And I don't enjoy it when people raise their voices in my office. I have several things to do this morning, all of which are more important than the time I am spending with you _._ You should, in actuality, be flattered in the most _profound_ way that I am bothering to speak with you at all. The fact that I am giving you a moment's extra notice... that I see within you the slightest, dimmest flicker of potential... is, quite possibly, the single greatest compliment you have ever been or shall ever be paid. Your lack of humility betrays nothing but the sad truth that you have learned very little from your trials and tribulations. Be grateful that it has passed to me to further your education."

Draco gaped at her. He realized that his mouth was open and shut it. He had not ever, even in the moments of his greatest fear and humiliation, been spoken to _exactly_ that way.

Mbenga was looking at him as if she expected a response. When Draco could not even manage a stammer, she continued:

"Is that in any way illuminating for you? Do you comprehend? Do you take my meaning?"

"I...t-take your meaning," Draco said, through numb lips. He tried to keep his mouth from twisting up, but it was no use; his face had always been his greatest betrayer.

"Excellent," Mbenga had replied, ignoring his sneer. "Now. Remove yourself from my office."

 

* * *

 

Draco wasn't the only one to whom Mbenga had administered her strange brand of justice. There was a girl Draco didn't know named Natalie Pinot, who after the war was over had helped her mother hide some of the more radical supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for _months_ before any Aurors found out. She had given by all reports a rather unrepentant testimony, but she was also underage, and the newer, gentler Wizengamot was loath to give her adult sentencing. Mbenga had gotten her claws in the case, and suddenly Natalie Pinot had to volunteer at a museum focused around the second Muggle World War, giving tours and generally immersing herself in the ugly culture of it all. What relevance such a punishment could be of Draco had no idea- he only thanked his stars that he had not been forced into the low-powered world of tour guides.

Gregory Goyle had gotten off with less restrictions than Draco, but he had to spend at least _six_ hours a week among the Muggles. Mbenga had also ordered him to take an adult education course, of his own choosing.

"She said that...even though she hadn't gone to Hogwarts and didn't know the um- the courses we took there... she.... uhhhh... got the impression that the education I had gotten was... spotty or something, wasn't doing me any favors," Greg said, when they had compared notes.

Draco had bristled inwardly. The horrible woman had called Greg _stupid_ , even if he didn't quite know it. Draco knew it. Nobody was allowed to call Greg stupid besides him.

"I hate her and I hope she falls down dead," Draco said, feeling his chest clench at the memory of how she had looked at him. Like he was less substantial than a sheet of parchment.

"We could just skive off and _say_ we did the, uh, 'Muggle studies', or whatever," Greg volunteered, but Draco shook his head.

"The tracking charms. We can't. You should just take a _Muggle_ class, that'll take care of both things at once," Draco said. "Stupid bint. She's probably a Mudblood, that's why she's so keen on punishing us."

"You're not s'posed to say things like that now, Draco," Greg said, something like alarm etching his rough-hewn features. "You know you can't say things like that anymore."

"I know," Draco snapped, feeling a little miserable inside. "I didn't mean it."

Draco helped with the schooling- eventually Greg settled on a place called City Lit, and took a course in 'Halloween-Themed Biscuit Decoration' and a course in cupcake decoration. The Ministry gave Greg a set of fake Muggle identification to apply with, since, according to the Muggles, he didn't exist.

"Merlin's beard," Draco said, when he was at Gringotts, helping Greg to convert real money into Muggle money. "This says that £42.00 is less than ten Galleons. Why are the courses so _cheap_? What kind of education can you possibly be getting?"

"Very bad one, I expect," Greg said, glumly.

But after the biscuits-and-cupcakes were finished, Greg took an 'Introduction to Chocolate' course, and then one on truffle making, and one called 'Marvelous Macarons'. The things that he brought to Draco became more and more edible.

"Think I might take a cu.... a culinary course," Greg said, about six months after he had begun dabbling at City Lit.

"A Muggle one?" Draco asked. He had seen it coming, he told himself. Of course Mbenga's little schemes would work on Greg. Greg was simple.

"Uh huh. _Accio_ honey-lavender macarons. Try these, they're good," Greg said.

Draco tried one. It was perfect. As he chewed, Greg took a breath.

"I... it's just... the Muggle classes are... they're good. And... uh... nobody looks at me or thinks anything about me. You know?"

"The luxury of anonymity," Draco said, through a mouthful of macaron. It came out garbled.

"Huh?"

"I _said_ ," Draco answered, "that sounds like a great idea."

"Oh," Greg said, nodding. "Good. I'm glad you think so."

"Of course I do," Draco said- for a moment he even meant it. "Bring me some more of the chocolate ones next week, yeah?"

 

* * *

 

Mr. Bashy and her books and her conversation and her plethora of suggestions took some warming up to. She accepted that Draco was absolutely not getting a job until his probation was over, thank-you-very-much, but she did push him into 'pastimes'. Draco eventually gave in and tried out for the Knockturn Knickers, just to make Bashy stop bothering him. He was confident that he would make the team. It was the minor-minors, after all.

Draco was more than a little shocked when he showed up to open tryouts, because Potter and Weasley had been there. Draco read the Potter articles just like everybody else- even, in his school days, had been a leading contributor to a few of them- and far as he knew, Potter played for the Golders Green Gits. He didn't know who Weasley played for and didn't care, but _Potter_ had dropped out of Auror training and _Potter_ worked part time at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes', and Potter did Merlin-knew what else with his stupid, worthless time- and Potter played for the Gits. The Gits had won the last tournament because of him. These were the undisputable _facts_. Draco had read them in the _newspaper_.

Draco was on the verge of turning and leaving when Weasley spotted him. Draco could see the unsubtle jab of Weasley's elbow into Potter's ribs, and Potter turned, looking confused and in need of a thorough ironing charm, until his speccy gaze settled on Draco.

"Er, Malfoy," Potter said, looking not particularly pleased to see him. "Hullo?"

"I thought you played for the Gits," Draco said. His voice sounded less derisive and more brittle than it had in his head.

"Yeah. The Gits are on sabbatical," Potter said, cocking an eyebrow at Draco in an expression he couldn't read. Potter's voice sounded flat when he talked to Draco. It hadn't been like that when they were children. It had been easy to anger Potter then- stupid, overly emotional creature that he was. But as the years had gone on Potter had become more and more difficult for Draco to provoke- until, after everything was said and done, Potter looked through him as easily as Mbenga had and spoke to him with the indifference of a person sharing a lift with a stranger.

"Goldberg- our captain- she got screaming boils from stress, or something, and had to go on an extended holiday, and it wasn't the same without her-"

"I thought it was screaming cysts. You weren't here to try _out_ , were you, Malfoy?" Weasley asked, looking him over. "Because Harry's just taken the Seeker's spot, so you might as well go home-"

"Nobody sends my potentials home except _me_ , Weasley," a voice said, behind Draco, and Draco turned. Behind him was a wide, frowning man perhaps a decade older than he, extending his hand. Draco put out his hand in kind, had it firmly shaken.

"I'm Tuan Ngô," the man said. "Captain and coach of the Knickers. What're you trying for?"

"Draco Malfoy. For Seeker?" Draco said, hating how his voice had turned the statement into a question, belying insecurity.

"Alright, let me find a fresh one," Ngô said, without barely looking at him, and hunted around for a moment until he found a case with a Snitch inside.

"These little goldies are charmed to stay close, so you won't hafta be up there for hours, don't worry," Ngô said, holding the fluttering ball aloft in a gloved hand. Draco waited until it was released and kicked off, noting the dinginess of the courtyard from above. He flew in exaggerated swoops until he saw the Snitch hiding behind a chimney, and then pushed his broom forward with more force than necessary. The Snitch eluded him, flying sharply just over his left shoulder, and Draco cursed and reeled around, nearly toppling off of his broom in the process. He was out of practice- it was a poor showing- and when the Snitch vanished again he risked a glance downwards. Ngô was watching him- Draco couldn't make out his expression- and Weasley was right at the captain's shoulder. Probably telling him all about why he shouldn't take Draco. About his past. Just to the side of them, Potter stood, one hand lifted to shade his eyes, watching Draco's path through the air.

 _I'll get it next time I see it,_ Draco vowed, internally, and when next the Snitch showed up, down by the group of six potential Beaters who were whizzing about, Draco executed a beautiful dive that made his stomach bottom out and caught it, dodging Beaters and grinning at his neat and timely victory. The whole thing had taken perhaps ten minutes. He landed, triumph splitting his windburned face into a grin, and presented the Snitch to Ngô.

"For you, Captain," Draco said, politely. Behind Ngô, Weasley rolled his eyes at Draco's tone, and mouthed _brown-noser_ to Potter. Potter raised a hand to his mouth, trying, Draco figured, to stifle a grin- but then Ngô gestured at Draco to follow him. They walked away from the pair, closer to where the Beater scrimmage was going on.

When they were out of earshot of Potter and Weasley, Ngô spoke.

"You're quite good, Malfoy, I've gotta hand it to you," Ngô said, and Draco stiffened, hearing the _but_ coming before it was spoken.

"But that Potter is the best flyer I've seen outside of the majors. Maybe even _in_ the majors. There's no way I can't take him. You understand?"

"Yes," Draco said, tersely. "I understand." Draco was holding his broom out slightly in front of him, and he watched as his grip tightened on the Firebolt's handle, his knuckles going white.

"Listen," Ngô said, and he turned to face Draco. "I want you to try out for Chaser. With your dexterity- I need one more Chaser, and-"

"No," Draco said, immediately.

"But-"

"No _thank_ you," Draco said, trying not to sound overly impolite. For a moment Ngô stared him down- then the other man's features broke into a smile.

"Stubborn, huh?" Ngô said. "Fine. Then how about this- that Potter's brilliant, but he's also a- _celebrity_ or whatnot, and I get the impression he might be unreliable-"

"Were you out of the country, or something?" Draco interrupted. Now he _was_ being rude, but honestly, how could you not know about _Potter_?

"Yes, actually," Ngô said, with a stern look that left Draco feeling unwillingly chastened. "My wife and I were studying overseas with the Muggles. Wonderful people, but no Quidditch. But I know enough. Thanks to Weasley, I also know that you were... a member of the wizarding Hitler Youth, whatever they called it-"

"The _what_?" Draco asked.

"The Death Beaters? That blood supremacist thing. And a 'tremendous prat', according to Weasley over there-"

"Weasley is a-"

"Malfoy. I don't care what you think of one another. You're gonna be teammates. In _Quidditch_. That's more important than any war."

 _Quidditch: More Important than War!_ Draco thought, inanely, but then his brain caught up with Ngô's words.

"But you _just_ said I didn't make the team-"

"No, I didn't. I'll give you reserve Seeker. Guarantee you'll play in five games out of every twenty- including in that five any that Potter misses, which I have a suspicion may be more frequent than I'd like. No championship games, though, sorry. Unless you want to reconsider trying out for Chaser. In fact, that's the other condition. If you're still here next season, you have to train for Chaser and play _there_ at least five games out of every twenty, too. Deal?"

Draco wanted to say no. This man talked to him like he was a first-year. Furthermore he didn't _want_ to be anyone's reserve, and certainly not Potter's. Definitely not Potter's.

"Fine," Draco said. Ngô's handshake was just as firm as it had been the first time.

  


That was how Draco came to play for the Knickers.

 

* * *

 

The Wizengamot- indeed, the entire Ministry of Magic- had to be torn down and rebuilt from the inside after the war, and so nobody bothered about the Malfoys until Draco was nineteen. Draco then came under Mbenga's power, and had to, as part and parcel of his probation, move to London. He picked the flat himself- a smallish place in Knockturn Alley, above Cobb and Webb's, with extremely well-cast wards and a negligible amount of sunlight. The light quality was comforting, reminding him of other places he had lived. Rent was a pittance, and Draco only kept a part time house-elf- he was trying to remain inexpensive, because he had heard phrases like _war reparations_ being thrown about and he had no idea if his parents would come away financially solvent.

Unfortunately, Draco had no idea how to do anything cheaply. He had lived a life where getting anything he wanted, no matter how extravagant, was only a wheedle away, and it was a difficult habit to break. His parents sent him an allowance and had assured him that he shouldn't look for work until 'it's all blown over'. _So never, then_ , Draco had resisted saying. He didn't want to get a job, either, though when he had gotten around to taking his N.E.W.T.s his marks had been quite good. They were rich, anyways, for the time being, and the Malfoys were ill-suited to pretty much everything aside from chairing the boards of this or that. And no Board of This or even of That wanted any Malfoy on it, not currently.

That first year of his probation was the hardest. Draco had been barred, for twelve months, from anything but Floo chats and owls with his parents, and the lack of their direct company ate at him more than he had expected it to. It shouldn't have bothered him- he'd been boarding for _years_ \- but after the war it had become particularly important to see them, to lay eyes upon them in the mornings- to be assured that they had not, after all, been killed as a result of Draco's own incompetence- that they were alive. It seemed almost impossible that they were, all three, well and alive.

For the first several months Draco hid himself away, talking to his mother on the Floo with an embarrassing frequency and otherwise seeing nobody besides Pansy, Greg, Blaise when he could tear himself away from shagging everyone in Milan, and the inescapable Mr. Bashy. He drank a lot of Pepper-Up. He acquired the dreadful habit of smoking- the grape flavoured variety of _Morgana Specials_ were his favorite- and then quit it when his flat began to smell stale, and then resumed it one maudlin night after a few firewhiskeys with the ancient witch who ran Cobb  & Webb's, and then quit again. And he read. He read a _lot_.

The first book that Mr. Bashy brought him was _1984_ \- a Muggle book that was _so_ Muggle-ish in convention that at certain points Draco had absolutely no idea what was going on. He read it in one go- because the story, when it came through, was terribly good and awfully sad- a weird world with a strange government and an evil Muggle man who might not exist lording over it all. Draco suspected that Mr. Bashy was trying to make a point, even if she never said so. A point _was_ made, but not the one she had probably hoped for: Draco suffered from nightmares about a cage around his face, rats with the faces of people crawling towards his eyes, and had to take Dreamless Sleep for two days to remedy the situation.

The next Bashy Book was called _The Remains of The Day_ and was much easier to understand. Draco read it and liked it so well that he promptly lent it to his mother, Muggle book or no. It was a simple story, on the one hand, about a man who was in love with his job... but then, as it went on, you realized that the man, even as he narrated, was lying about _everything_ , even to himself, and that he had been in love with a woman and not the job after all.

 _What a curious conceit of writing_ , Draco thought, _that the audience might know that the protagonist loves this person, but the protagonist himself doesn't know it, will do anything to keep from knowing it..._

Then, mortifyingly, the Bashy Books had started to get more personal in nature. Two months into their association, Mr. Bashy brought over _Is Your Child A Bully?_ by some doctor called Tibbins.

"But I don't _have_ a child, Bashy," Draco had said, pulling the offending tome out of the stack she had brought.

"Hmmm? Oh, I know," Bashy said, looking up from the parchment she was perpetually scribbling on. Draco constantly itched to _Accio_ the parchment to himself and read it, see what on earth she was _saying_ about him, but he didn't want to do anything that would earn him a black mark.

"I just had that around, thought you might like it..." Bashy said, vaguely.

"But _you_ don't have any children, either," Draco said, pointedly. His ears felt hot. He wondered if Bashy was trying to tell him something. Not that she _knew_ anything about him, really, not anything at all.

"No, but I've... uhh... read it... _several_ times... and it's really good, give it a go," Bashy said.

The spine of the book was clean and not creased. It was clearly new. When Draco opened it, there was a bill printed on a slip of paper. _Foyle's,_ it said. A muggle bookshop. The slip was dated for 8 August 1999: the previous day.

"Bashy," Draco said, shutting the book, "Don't ever go in for Unspeakable. You'd be awful at it."

"Wasn't planning to," Bashy replied, not looking up from her parchment.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Rather shockingly, it was Weasley who first broke the tension between them. A lifetime of mutual hatred, apparently, was less compelling to Weasley than a good game of Quidditch; Draco supposed that he was rather like Ngô in that way.

It was when Draco had been with the Knickers for a month and a week: they were two games into the season, and had won the first- thanks to Potter- and lost the second- thanks to Leanne, a fifty year old Knickers Beater with shoulders like a linebacker and the longest hair Draco had ever seen. She was terrifyingly aggressive- they had earned so many fouls because of her that even Potter's contributions could not save them: the game went on for hours, and Potter refrained from prematurely catching the Snitch because they were more than 150 points behind, but even he could only lead the other Seeker out of the way for so long.

At the next practice Ngô was in a short temper: Weasley was sent to the tub for being rude to Leanne, and Leanne was benched and replaced with Ngô himself, 'until she could learn sportsmanship'.

"Sports _woman_ ship," Leanne said, darkly, during her dressing-down- Ngô's anger seemed to have little to no effect on her- and then she promptly opened a romance novel with a half-nude warlock on the cover and ignored the rest of the proceedings. Draco took care to stay away from her.

Potter was late.

"Where is he?" Ngô asked, visibly clenching his jaw. "Where's Potter?"

"He broke his ankle in the shop- fell climbing up the shelves in the storeroom," Weasley explained, from where he sat in the penalty tub, his knees rising above the lip of it. "Then he tried to fix it himself. _Then_ we had to go to Saint Mungo's. The Mediwitch said he broke it in three places- but he's coming, it'll just take him a bit longer to get here-"

Ngô's neck turned a shade of crimson that Draco had never seen in nature.

"So he'll be out for a while, then," Ngô said, with such obvious restraint that Draco was unwillingly impressed.

"No, no!" Weasley protested. "I mean, he can't _walk_ for a few weeks _-_ on account of the Mediwitch says he did loads of extra damage trying to fix it himself- but he can fly just fine-"

"Malfoy, get in there," Ngô said. "You're gonna be playing against the Twits this Friday, and Yamazaki is an incredible Seeker. She's the second best in the minor-minors."

 _Best_ being, of course, Potter, and not Draco. Draco ignored the way the comment stung, and picked up his broom, tossing a smug look at Weasley, who seemed to explode with panic, half-rising from the tub.

"B-but we'll lose for sure with _Malfoy_!" Weasley said. "Malfoy's a useless git who loses every match he plays! Harry can play just _fine_ , he's-"

"Piss off, Weasel, I'm ten times the player _you've_ ever been-" Draco snapped, but Ngô spoke over both of them.

"Weasley, open that mouth again and I swear to Merlin I'll tub you for the _season_ ," Ngô said. "I don't put injured players in the field. Go on, Malfoy, hurry up," he added. Draco pulled one last awful face at Weasley, who was now in a furious red-faced sulk, and lifted into the air.

 

* * *

 

The night before the match Draco couldn't sleep, which had been the case before every match ever since school. He imagined Potter breaking his foot, tumbling stupidly off of shelves that went impossibly high, staggering backwards on one leg, grimacing in pain against the brown, sunburnt knuckles of his wide, flat hands- and then, for some reason that could only be comprehended if you understood how very dim Potter really was- trying to heal the break _himself_. Draco went to his family's Mediwizard for the most minor of injuries, for a parchment cut- because one's health was really _very_ important.

The thoughts of Potter falling turned into thoughts of Potter flying: there were flames all around them, and Vince was dying, Vince was dead- and then Potter- was lifting him up, onto a broom, and, and...

 _Oh, help,_ Draco thought _, oh help him to go faster and oh help me because we are going to die down here and I thought I would die in battle and that thought was unbearable- and then I thought I was going to die at the hands of the Dark Lord and that was even_ worse _\- but I am going to die_ down _here in these flames with Potter and he won't make it out in time and I've barely had any sort of life at all and he hasn't had one either and we'll be burned alive and the last thing I'll ever see before the agony of it is his face, dying, and-_

-and Draco woke to the sound of rain against the windowpanes, and realized that he had slept, after all.

  


* * *

  


The rain was torrential by the time the match started.

"Rasputin's bloody _bullet_ holes," Draco cursed- even with his goggles charmed, he could see next to nothing. Yamazaki was flying circles around him, Weasley- his skill level always directly correlated to his mood- was having an off game and kept getting scored on, and Ngô wasn't half the Beater that Leanne was. The announcer had a cold and hadn't shown up. The referee was new. They were doomed.

The worst part was, in lieu of any available _real_ announcer, they had given the job to Potter. Yes, Potter had shown up: he'd crutched in with Granger- recognizable to Draco even from the air by her enormous, bushy head- and the pair had taken refuge under a huge umbrella. Potter had cast _Sonorus_ on himself, and was making the worst hash of narrating a match that Draco had ever heard. Granger was doing paperwork, scarcely looking up- Draco suspected she had charmed herself or else everyone around her so that she could work in silence. Draco could feel the weight of Potter's gaze on him, and hear Potter's insipid commentary, following him through the air and fouling up his concentration.

"Yes, and- uh, excellent body block by Ro- by Weasley- I think that was a half starfish-and-stick, wasn't it, Ron? And now the Twit's Chaser- I don't know- I don't know his name- he's- Oh! Wait- I think the Twists- I mean the Twits- are about to score! Good one on you, though, ten points for the Twits- don't shake your fist at me, Ron, I've got to say what happens! I mean, er, Weasley-"

Finally, _finally_ , Draco saw the Snitch: a flicker of gold down by the Twit's rightmost goal post. Yamazaki had seen it too, and they took off, in a frantic race through the sheeting rain. Draco pulled up at the last second to avoid a Bludger, rolled sideways and darted forward again, willing his broom to make up the distance he had lost to Yamazaki, but she was too fast-

"Both of the Seekers have spotted the Snitch, but Malfoy's fallen behind! Come _on_ Malfoy, move yourself!"

"I _am,_ you stupid git!" Draco shouted, pointlessly. His voice was lost under the rain, and he watched as Yamazaki's hand reached out- victory snatched away from him _again_ , again- and then the Snitch, contrite as ever, whirred away from her fingertips at the last moment, shooting straight up and disappearing from view.

The game of circling began anew. Yamazaki tried to pull him in with a Wronski feint, but Draco wasn't falling for it, and he turned, to see the Snitch just behind him- but it was a particularly difficult Snitch, charmed to be extra shy or something, and as soon as Draco looked at it, it was gone again. The rain, incredibly, seemed to redouble its efforts, until the pitch and the players below were nothing but a blur, and Potter's voice the only solid thing in existence.

"I can't- can't see anything in this rain- I _think_ that's Captain Ngô who just did that bludger backbeat, that was neat, Captain- oh, but now one of the Twit's Beaters is- is he hurt? No, he's just wet, he's wringing out his robes- maybe we should take a timeout so that everyone can re-cast their drying charms-"

There was the Snitch again. Draco saw it and prayed that Yamazaki hadn't: she and the bulk of her team were between it and Draco. He tried for 'casual loops' and managed a few, coming closer to Yamazaki and the Snitch- and then, when he was ten meters from victory, nearly level with Yamazaki, she figured out what he was doing and stiffened, looking all around for the Snitch.

Now it was a race. Draco gave up all pretence at being casual and _pushed_ his Firebolt, willing it to take him as quickly as he’d been able to move when he was eleven- trying to weigh less than the air around him- and he and Yamazaki bumped brooms. Yamazaki was lighter and smaller and faster than Draco, but it didn't matter: he was ahead of her, gloriously ahead, and she was trying to knock him off course, and all he had to do was _stay ahead_ -

"There's something happening up there with the Seekers! They're too high up- I can't- I think Malfoy's in the lead- they're going for the Snitch, it's behind-"

 _Be quiet, Potter, you're messing up my concentration,_ Draco thought, biting his bottom lip-

Draco threw one hand out, and Yamazaki, in desperation, shoved at the back of his broom with a stunning amount of force- Draco's Firebolt tilted dangerously, tipping him into the air- and everything began to go very slowly for Draco.

 _I lost again, I can't believe it,_ Draco thought, as he flew off of his broom- one of his legs had been knocked askew by Yamazaki's efforts- his left leg- and he was unseated, he was flying forward through the air and if he grabbed onto the broomstick with both hands right now he might just avoid dropping through the air like a stone-

 _No! Absolutely not!_ Draco thought- and he kept his arm outstretched, didn't grab for his broom- saw the broom buck forward when it came up riderless, and- closed his hand around the Snitch.

And fell.

"MALFOY'S FALLEN! HE'S ON THE GROUND! SOMEBODY GET OUT THERE AND- MRS. ALLGOOD, I KNOW YOU HAVEN'T REFEREED BEFORE, BUT YOU SHOULD CALL A TIMEOUT NOW! HE- HOLD ON, I'M COMING OUT THERE! HERMIONE, COME WITH ME, HE MIGHT NEED SAINT MUNGO'S! HERMION- HEY! TAKE THAT MUFFLIATO OFF!"

Draco opened his eyes, and looked up at Weasley, who was first of all the players to reach him. Carefully, ignoring the rain, Draco smirked- a grin of triumph- and tried to unfurl the fingers of his left hand. It wouldn't work. There was something wrong with his hand- but Weasley's eyes widened all the same.

"He's got the Snitch!" Weasley said, and he reached down and hauled Draco up by his right hand. "Malfoy, that was _excellent_!"

 _I know it was excellent, Weasel_ , Draco tried to say, but he was overwhelmed by a surge of pain in his left arm.

"I think," Weasley said- and his hand shot out- he tugged Malfoy's left sleeve up, and Draco made a terribly undignified noise at the pain. There was _bone_ poking through the skin of his forearm, through his bloody Dark Mark- he had caught himself wrongly, trying to protect the Snitch-

"Malfoy, that's _wicked_ ," Weasley said, sounding utterly impressed, and then Ngô and Granger ran up, Potter doing a ridiculous one-legged hop some paces behind them. The players on the pitch, from both teams, began to land around them.

"We've got an injured player here!" Ngô yelled, over the rain. "Also, we've won it! Call the game, Mrs. Allgood! That was-"

"Oh, good lord," Granger said, examining his arm. " _Episkey_. We'll have to take you to get that fixed properly-"

The _Episkey_ had been too much- the feeling of his bone popping back into place under his skin made Draco's stomach lurch, and he leaned forward, in front of everyone, and abruptly vomited all over Weasley's boots. Weasley, for some reason, found this hilarious, and he laughed, and slapped Draco's back.

"Is he alright?" Potter asked, hopping up at long last. "What's wrong with him?" Potter took the Snitch from Draco's hand, carefully- Draco hadn't realized he was still holding it. Through the pain, he registered that Potter's fingers were very warm, despite the rain.

Most of the Knickers went to St. Mungo's with him. Plus Granger. Draco had no idea why; he was an adult, he could care for himself- but Ngô had side-alonged him, on account of his suspended apparition license- and for some reason, and they were all treating him like he was helpless. Which he _wasn't_. He just hated pain.

"I didn't know you had it in you, Malfoy," Weasley kept saying, to anyone who would listen- certainly not to Draco, who kept his eyes closed while he waited so that he wouldn't be compelled to look at the hole in his arm where his bone had come through.

"I just didn't know you had it in you," Weasley repeated, slapping him on the back once more. "That was the greatest play I've ever seen! We can advance to the next round now because of you. This is the best thing you've ever done in your whole miserable life, _ever_ -"

"Stop jostling him," Granger said. "He's liable to be sick again. And pull his sleeve down, won't you? He's going to frighten people with the Mark-"

"Touch my robes and I'll kill every last one of you," Draco whispered, without opening his eyes. Potter laughed, from somewhere to his left.

"Fine," Granger said. "Leave it up, Malfoy, I don't care. But- Ron, clean your shoes! I told you the rain didn't 'wash it all off '! You stink!"

This started Weasley laughing again.

"I don't even mind, 'Mione," Weasley said, sounding smug. "Malfoy could be sick on my shoes every _day_ if he plays like _that_ all the time. It wouldn't be much different from school, anyways- he was always spewing some shite at us-"

"Not _literally_ ," Draco managed. "I was spewing witticisms." This quip was punished with another laugh and more back-slapping.

"Brilliant, Malfoy, just brilliant," Weasley said.

After that, Weasley still treated Draco with animosity- but it was different: a friendly animosity. If such a thing existed. Weasley _teased_ him- and by extension Potter began to talk to him, sometimes. Apparently, in Weasley's tiny brain, there were some things you couldn't go through without calling a truce, and winning a Quidditch match and throwing up on somebody in the rain was one of them.

  


* * *

  


The one and only time that Potter was ever tubbed was because he was fighting with Draco. It was several weeks after the Twits game; Draco was long-healed and so was Potter, who had gone back to stealing all of the glory for himself and ensuring that Draco scarcely played.

It wasn't even _during_ practice- Draco had made an innocent comment, that was all- it wasn't even his _fault_.

The Knickers didn't even have showers, because they didn't really have uniforms: teams in the minor-minors only had uniforms if they were lucky or rich, and mostly players would just pick a team colour and wear only that during games. During practices, too, if you were on Ngô's team, because 'it helped to build a sense of camaraderie', according to their captain. The Knickers colour was black: they changed in a cheap, hastily-erected tent before and after practices, without a shower in sight. The men all changed together, at one end, and the women changed behind curtains at the other. Not that Draco was particularly inclined to sneak a peek at the ladies: not at Leanne, or Billie, or Ngo's wife, and certainly not at Crawley, who was _actually_ part troll and had three nostrils.

Draco did, however, sneak glances at Potter. Potter would _Accio_ his clothing from a bag he'd brought with him and _Scourgify_ his awful, sweaty hair- always very hastily, like he was being timed. Nothing remarkable about that. Except that Potter cast his _Accios_ and his cleaning charms without a wand. He did it without a wand and without even saying the words- like he was trying to be subtle. That was a laugh. Potter was about as subtle as a Bludger to the face.

"How much wandless magic can you _do_ , anyways?" Draco asked. Potter had been in the process of stripping off his black shirt- now he paused, his eyes instantly narrowing.

"What the hell do you mean by that, Malfoy?" Potter snapped- it was the first time in a while that Potter had looked quite so cold when he spoke to Draco- and it surprised Draco a bit, making him bite out his reply.

"Just that maybe you're using it during _games_ , if you can do it at easily as breathing," Draco said, feeling his lip curl up. He hadn't _meant_ anything by it, why had Potter given him such a nasty look?

"I'm not _cheating_ ," Potter said, struggling the rest of the way out of his shirt. He took a step closer to Draco, suddenly projecting all his Savior-of-the-World menace, and Draco resisted the urge to take a step back. "I don't even know what you mean about wandless magic-"

"You can hide your stupid, overblown powers from everyone else," Draco said, even as Potter squared up his shoulders, "-but you can't hide them from _me_ , Potter. I know all you care about is looking good out there-"

It was ridiculous. Draco didn't really believe for a moment that Potter was using wandless magic to win games- but Potter was clearly so upset by the implication that Draco just, well, _went_ with it. If something worked-

Potter took a deep breath, touching his fingertips to his temples, and then spoke in a lower, calmer voice.

"If you want to play more games, Malfoy, I'll let you have them, just ask Ngô. I don't know why you care, though," Potter added, in an undertone, "Nobody ever comes to see you play-"

Draco flinched, he couldn't help it.

" _My_ friends don't want to be anywhere near _you_ and your stupid martyr complex," Draco bit out. "Of course they'd never come. You're unbearable, I get hives just thinking about you. And my _family_ is under house arrest for the foreseeable future, no thanks to you-"

"As if your father doesn't deserve it-"

"How many times have I told you not to talk about my _father_ , Potter-"

"You're right, you're right," Potter said- he rubbed his temples again, his voice sounding incongruously amicable when coupled with the anger evident on his face. "He's not really worth mentioning, is he, Malfoy? But then I guess none of you really are-"

"You stupid _filthy_ arrogant idiot-" Draco said- he was blindingly angry, suddenly, and as upset as if he'd been hit across the face- and he threw out his arms and _shoved_ , relishing the startled sound of indignation that Potter made as Draco's hands forced him backwards. Potter stumbled, nearly tumbling over, and managed to right himself at the very last second, pivoting around like a puppet with half-cut strings.

"Oi, Harry, what's-" Weasley was talking, somewhere nearby, but Draco didn't care, he saw nothing but Potter, advancing on him- Potter reached out his arms the way Draco had done, his face twisted- and before he could even make contact Draco was pushed backwards roughly- not by Potter's hands, not by his hands at all, but by a raw _force_ , as if Potter's magic itself had shoved him.

Draco stumbled back against the canvas side of the tent and crashed through, Potter landing atop him, and they struggled on the tarmac, neither of them landing any decent blows. Potter was red-faced and cursing under his breath, and Malfoy tried to kick him somewhere painful- and then Crawley, clad in a towel that hid absolutely nothing, was pulling them apart effortlessly.

"What's going on? What's this?!" Ngô's voice cut through the chaos.

"Fighting, Captain," Crawley said, trollishly. She lifted Draco and Potter up by their shoulders, her three nostrils flaring in that Draco imagined was displeasure.

"Fighting? Fighting?" Ngô said. "Set them down, Crawley, thank you. Go get some clothes on, you're driving everybody mad, you're too fit to look at-"

Crawley grunted, and ambled back to the tent. Draco was suddenly, painfully reminded of the late Vincent Crabbe, and he tongued his lip- it had been split sometime during the proceedings, but Draco hadn't noticed when- and felt absolutely awful for himself.

Potter was trying to catch his breath. He looked livid, like he wanted to have another go at Draco, but the look faded when Ngô started shouting at them.

"I said _no_ fighting on my team! How many times have I said that!? No, I don't _care_ what it was about, Malfoy, don't even open your mouth! It's the tub for both of you, march!"

"But Captain, he _started_ it-" Draco protested.

"No I didn't-"

"But practice is _over_!" Weasley protested, from behind them. "They can't have a penalty now!"

"They can have a penalty thirty seconds after they're _dead_ if I say so! Keep out of it, Weasley- everyone else, go home. Potter and Malfoy are going to make nice with each other in the penalty tub for an hour while I _watch_ them, because when Knickers act like children they get _treated_ like children-"

"I shudder to think that you're a parent," Draco said. Potter laughed aloud at that, despite his obvious anger.

"I shudder to think what I'll do to you if you aren't in that tub in fifteen seconds, Malfoy," Ngô said. "You too, Potter. Go."

"Bad luck, mate!" Weasley called, after them. "See you at the shop! Malfoy, you're a git!"

"Bye, Ron," Harry said, glumly- and he climbed into the tub. Draco followed, shoving Potter over.

For several minutes they sat in silence while Ngô circled high above them in lazy loops, flying for the obvious love of it, and then Potter reached over and waved his hand in front of Draco's face. Without a wand. Draco felt the cut on his mouth scab over suddenly. It was a weird sensation when you weren't expecting it, weirder still when it came from Potter.

"I didn't heal it all the way, I'm rubbish at healing," Potter said. His voice lacked the contempt it'd been filled with in the tent.

"Do you do _anything_ with a wand anymore, Potter?" Malfoy said, trying not to look as thrown as he felt.

" 'Course I do," Potter said. "Big things. But- it's like this- a wand is just a- a construct. Just a stick to help us push our magic- we don't _need_ them."

"Spoken like a Muggle. Or, well, spoken like an _idiot_ , really. They're stuffed full of _magic_ , they're not just _sticks_ ," Draco said, rolling his eyes. Still, he couldn't help being a tiny bit impressed with Potter's abilities. Not that he would ever let Potter know it.

"But it bothers people... they get all shirty if I say that sort of...um... look, just don't _tell_ everybody, okay, Malfoy?"

"As you so graciously pointed out," Malfoy said, watching Ngô as he flew above them, "I have nobody to tell."

"I just said that nobody comes to your matches, I didn't-"

"Yes. But that's what you meant, wasn't it, Potter?"

"I don't know. Maybe," Potter said, leaning back to rest his neck against the lip of the tub. It looked uncomfortable, but Potter sighed as if he were relaxed. Potter was still shirtless- his arms were tanned a deep brown to match his stupid face- but his chest was several shades paler. A ludicrous tan that could be fixed with a simple potion, but of course Potter would never think to do it.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," Potter said. "I didn't really want to fight with you again. I'm trying not to..."

"You should be sorry," Draco said, pleased. "If you hit me again I'll tell everyone about your terrible, fearsome magic. I'll _run_ to the press. You're like Darth Vader. Dark Lord Potter. _Darth_ Potter. Maybe I'll make pins-"

Potter let out a startled laugh and sat up, looking into Draco's face.

"Darth Vader? How do you know about that?"

"Oh," Draco said, feeling horribly embarrassed. Bad things always came of speaking to Potter, it was a fact long proven, but-

"I'm having the hardest time imagining you watching _Star Wars_ , Malfoy," Potter went on, his lopsided mouth turning up at the corners.

"I just- I go to a Muggle cinema. For my probation, I have to spend time among the Muggles," Draco said, all in one breath. "Stop laughing, Potter, it's not funny!"

"It's _so_ funny," Potter said, still laughing. "Ah. Heh. Let me just enjoy that for a-"

Draco slapped Potter right on flat of his pale-ish stomach, and Potter made a yelping sound, and laughed harder.

"No fighting down there!" Ngô yelled- his voice was small and far above, and Potter put his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

The man who'd saved the world was really remarkably unremarkable-looking, Draco mused, watching the muscles of Potter's shoulders move as he laughed. He was decently trim, in a wiry, dull sort of way, and he had a few odd scars on his torso- from injuries Draco couldn't guess at. Potter's nose- which Draco had broken once, the single most satisfying _crunch_ of his entire life- had been straightened out by someone, and that was alright, but his body was woefully lacking. The line of hair that ran down into his trousers looked like somebody had-

"What're you looking at me like that for? What is it?" Potter demanded, fixing his forever-disconcerting eyes on Draco suddenly- Draco hadn't even noticed when he'd stopped laughing.

"I was-" Draco began, and he felt his ears get hot. Thank god Potter was nearly blind- even behind his ugly bottlecap specs, his stare was more compelling than anyone else's. Naked, his eyes would have made him look every inch... Darth Potter.

"I was just thinking it looks like somebody covered your abdomen in Paste Potion and threw pubic hair all over it," Draco said. "You should have really taken a moment to cover yourself, Potter, that's hideous-"

"Use your lousy first-year insults on me, then," Potter said, looking unfazed. "It'll never blot out this image I have of you- ah, crying at the end of _The Empire Strikes Back_ -"

"What empire _?_ Why is it striking?" Draco asked.

Potter groaned. "Oh, no, Malfoy, that's the second one, you can't- it's a trilogy, you have to see them all-"

"Alright, you're free," Ngô said, and Draco looked away from Potter, startled at the interruption.

"But it hasn't been an hour," Draco said, before he could stop himself. It wasn't as if he didn't want a reprieve-

"I'm aware, Malfoy, but you seem to be getting on well enough, and I want to go home and eat," Ngô replied. Potter was standing up, dusting off his trousers with clumsy movements. Before he stepped out of the tub, he turned and offered his hand to Draco.

Draco took it- Potter was already turning away by the time Draco was on his feet, and Draco was glad, because taking Potter's hand stirred up upsetting memories in him and he had, for a moment, no idea what his own face was doing.

"Excellent," Potter said, jumping out of the tub with more force than was necessary and smiling at Ngô . "Thanks, Captain. I thought I might be late for my date."

 _Oh_ , Draco thought, feeling very much nothing at all.

"No fighting anymore, I _mean_ it," Ngô was saying- and Draco nodded.

"Malfoy," Potter was saying- and Draco forced his eyes up from where they had fixed upon the ground.

"Mmm?"

"Always nice serving detention with you," Potter said. His mouth was turned up at the corners again.

" _Nice_? Check your memories," Draco said, less brusquely than he'd meant to. "You should amend that to 'always serving detention with you'."

"Even when we're adults," Harry added, mock-grimly. Then he smiled again, and turned towards the tent, stepping into the torn, open side that he and Malfoy had fallen through. Draco watched as the tent flap fixed itself after Potter passed through it- _Reparo_ cast without a wand. Potter emerged a moment later, bag in hand and properly clothed. He didn't look at Draco again.

Draco stood and watched him go.

  


* * *

  


The cinema that Draco frequented was nothing like he'd expected it to be. He had been lost about what to do in Muggle London until Mr. Bashy had suggested it. She'd said that the cinema was a place where Muggles showed films- just two hour long plays, really- on a screen, that there was a counter and tickets, that there was food if you wanted it, and that it would be an easy enough way for Draco to 'acclimate'.

"Marc and I go once a week. Muggles and Muggleborns are completely miserable without telly and cinema," Mr. Bashy had said, and Draco had rolled his eyes, wondering what could be so spectacular about it.

Mr. Bashy had also given Draco a short list of cinemas _she_ liked, but Draco had ignored that and struck out to find one on his own. A really _good_ one, better than any that Bashy could have suggested.

The one he found was... unusual. Draco was taken with it immediately. He had seen it from the sidewalk, a little place with big glass windows and a screen playing images on it. The building was under construction- Draco had to pass underneath scaffolding to get in- but once he was inside he found the the screen facing him, and a woman at a counter. There were muggles seated inside, on tatty chairs lining the walls, most of them watching the screen, which showed a girl in a pair of garish red slippers dancing with an army of Flitwicks.

Draco knew from Bashy that you were meant to be quiet at the cinema, so he'd lowered his voice to a whisper, approaching the young woman behind the counter.

"One ticket for the film, please?" He asked.

"Uhhh..." the Muggle woman looked up at him from her magazine. She had the weirdest hairstyle that Draco had ever seen, even counting Metamorphagi- stripped of colour until it was even paler than _his_ hair, with blue bits here and there, and twisted up onto her head in about a dozen tiny little knots, seemingly at random.

"A ticket... do you have an appointment?" The woman asked.

"No," Draco whispered, feeling lost and trying not to let it show. "I just want to watch the film. And to buy a lolly. I have... pounds."

"Uh... you can watch it if you _want_ , I guess?" The girl said. "The lollies are free?"

Draco didn't understand why she was answering his questions with more questions, but he took three lollipops and sat in the chair with the best available view.

The film was actually about Dark Arts vs. Light Magic, as far as Draco could tell. A witch with green skin and a laugh like his late Aunt Bellatrix's was killed with Avada Kedavra hidden in a bucket of water, a wizard turned out to be a Muggle, and finally the girl got to go back to Cans-Arse, which made Draco giggle every time they said it. The Muggles ignored him completely. Periodically the counter woman would call out a surname, and one of the Muggles would rise and disappear, only to return later. All in all, a bizarre- but tolerable- experience.

  


 

* * *

 

  


  


"What's that you're working on?" Mr. Bashy asked him, some months after Draco first had fallen into her clutches. Bashy had been reading yesterday's _Prophet_ , taking a break from her damned note-scribbling for once. _**PRE-DAWN PANIC ON PLATFORM 9 3/4: Hooded Figure Sighted!**_ The _Prophet_ shouted, in bold type- but Draco had already perused the article and didn't particularly see how someone in a hood levitating luggage and not hurting a soul was cause for panic. It was just a symptom, Draco thought, of how fragile everyone was, how terribly on edge. How long it would take until everything felt right with the world again.

Bashy set the paper down and Draco cleared his throat, gesturing grandly at his parchment.

"A list of things that could be done to improve the cinema I go to," Draco said, tapping his quill against the roll of parchment. "I'm helping Fern. I think she's the owner, I've never seen anybody else working there. Muggle attendance is all over the place, so I thought, with some- really very _obvious_ \- improvements-"

"Let me see it," Mr. Bashy said, a smile on her face- and Draco offered it up. "Have at it, Bashy. See if you aren't impressed with my natural flair for entrepreneurial enterprises."

The note read as follows:

_Dear Fern,_

_Enclosed are some ideas that could improve your cinema_. _I hope you don't think me overly forward, I find the place quite enjoyable, but you really have no head for business. I do, however, so I thought I might provide a little list of suggestions:_

_-First off, you absolutely MUST start charging people to see the films. I know, you'll lose some customers initially- but they aren't really customers if they don't pay, you see?_

_-Greater variety of foods. Lollipops are all well and good, but ~~according to my probation officer~~ there are many ~~Muggle~~ cinemas that additionally offer popcorn and pretzels. As well as sweets. Also, sometimes you run out of the lollies completely, and sometimes you haven't got any of the red flavour, which is completely unacceptable. You should be charging for these as well._

_-Invest in some better chairs. The chairs you have now are uncomfortable and, honestly, look rather flea-bitten. These expenditures will be ultimately well worth it. Create a little ambiance, Fern, the place needs it desperately._

_-Speaking of ambiance, eventually you MUST force those people to finish working on the facade of your building. It's not progressed at all since I first started coming- the walkway into the place is totally obscured by scaffolding, and you don't even have a sign up! Most people are not as astute as I am, Fern, and they'll never find the place if it doesn't have a sign!_

_-This may sound like an odd one, but I think that the idea of dimming the lights- perhaps even turning them off completely- could add radically to the experience. Also covering up the windows- when the sunlight hits at a certain angle I can barely see the screen, and I missed half of last week's film that way._

_-Assigned seating. That terrible man with the incessant cough took my chair on Wednesday, and frankly I'm still sore about it. There are only a few spots that really have a worthwhile view- also think about rearranging the chair placement._

_-The constant ringing of your beastly loud_ ~~ _Floo_~~ ~~ _telpone_~~ _telephone (sp?) is very distracting. I don't know what's so pressing that you need telephone(s) (sp?- ask Bashy)_ _at all, but it seems as if all you do is repeat a variety of depressing ailments at these people on the other end and write down their names in your book. Frankly it gives the whole thing an out-of-place, surgery-type feeling. Pursue your bizarre hobbies on your own time, Fern. Your cinema is a place of business._

 _-The adverts that play every 25 to 27 minutes during the films. THIS IS UNBEARABLE AND MUST BE STOPPED IMMEDIATELY_. _If you simply begin taking money in exchange for tickets, you will be able to do without the revenue you get from the_ ~~ _Muggle_~~ _soft drink companies et al._

_-Perhaps printing some kind of schedule in advance? I myself am forever missing the openings of films, and I have no idea what in ~~Merlin's~~ Merlin's (Muggles know about Merlin, don't they? -ask Bashy) name I'll end up viewing at any given time. There must be some way to organize this._

  


_Respectfully,_

_Draco Malfoy, Your Loyal Patron_

  


Mr. Bashy read the whole thing, a weird expression on her face and one hand lifted to her mouth, and then moved her eyes to the top of the parchment and read it again.

"Good suggestions, yes?" Draco asked, when she said nothing.

"Uh... yes, very," Mr. Bashy answered. She looked up at Draco, still with that weird expression, hiding her mouth behind her hand, and Draco felt unaccountably chagrined.

" _What_? What, Bashy, what do you have that face on for?" Draco demanded.

"I don't have a face on. Besides, you know, my actual face. These are excellent suggestions that...any cinema would do well to abide by. Well. I don't know about the assigned seating, but-"

"So I can give it to her then?" Draco asked, feeling pride suffuse him. "I have to copy it over, but-"

"I'm... not certain. I have to ask Mbenga about our policies concerning... uh.... liaising with Muggles," Mr. Bashy said.

"What! Other people can _marry_ Muggles, Greg can go to Muggle school- but I can't write a simple note?"

"I just have to ask her first," Mr. Bashy said, rolling up the parchment and tucking it into her sleeve. "You're.... uhhh... under the Wizengamot's custody now, I have to- check on things like this."

"That's miserably unfair," Draco said, scowling.

"It was a very good effort, though," Mr. Bashy said, smiling at him again. "Very well thought out. Quite delightful, actually."

"I know," Draco answered. "Obviously I know that."

Mr. Bashy brought her hand to her mouth again, and then said, like she had thought better of it:

"Draco...are you quite certain that you're going to a Muggle cinema?"

"I've got loads of tracking charms from you people on me!" Draco said, half-rising from his chair. "You _know_ I go into Muggle London! You think I would just make all _this_ up?"

"No, of course not," Mr. Bashy said, hastily. "Calm down. I think it's a lovely note, alright?"

Later, when he bothered Bashy about it, she said that Mbenga hadn't approved the note. So Draco continued to suffer with the many inadequacies of his own personal cinema. Not that he would think of switching. It was his favourite.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Of course, eventually the press caught on to the fact that Potter was playing for the Knickers. Matches, usually woefully under attended in the minor-minors, started to gain an audience. Specifically _Knickers_ matches. Specifically, matches where Potter played. By the start of Potter's second season with Knickers, it was beginning to turn into a media circus. Slow news days could always be bumped up a bit with a photo of Potter doing some outrageous stunt on a broom.

"It was like this on the Gits, at the end," Weasley yelled, as they fought their way through the crowd after Potter had won in yet another annoyingly excellent play. Somehow Draco, who wanted nothing more than to give interviews about how sublimely irritating Potter was, was now helping Weasley and Crawley to force through the milieu so that Potter could escape.

"I think it's why our old captain got the screaming stress cysts!" Weasley exclaimed, and Draco saw that Potter had the grace to look guilty.

"You really think so?" Potter asked, worriedly.

"Don't worry, Potter, Ngô would never succumb to anything so trivial and non-Quidditch-related as stress," Draco said.

"What?"

"I _said_ ," Draco yelled, as a well-dressed witch with a press tag in her pointed cap nearly knocked him down, "Ngô won't ever go the way of your old captain, so wipe that stupid sad look off your-"

"Out of the way, or I'll start kicking faces," Crawley growled, from ahead of them, and the crowd parted like a sea.

The team apparated to a pub. Draco's apparition license was still suspended, and so he had to side-along with Leanne. Ngô showed up last, cramming his wide frame into the booth next to Draco, so that Draco ended up squashed against Potter.

"The recruiter from the Appleby Arrows was there to speak with you," Ngô said, leaning into Draco's space to talk to Potter. "Again."

"Oh? Er, I didn't see her... him. Them," Harry said, grabbing a shot of firewhiskey off the tray as it arrived.

"That's _my_ leg, Potter," Draco said. "Hands to yourself."

"Oh, sorry," Potter said, and moved the offending appendage. Ngô was still breathing on Draco's face, and Draco leaned as far back as possible. He felt dirty and sweaty and frustrated, because he'd had to play bloody _Chaser_ again, and he sort've liked it but it was nothing on Seeker, and the team was jammed into two booths when they should've gotten at least _three_ booths-

"As tempting as it is to say that I would enact a murder-suicide if you left us, you really should talk to them, Potter. All these recruiters and reporters showing up, they know as well as I do that you belong in the majors-"

"They don't show up because he's a good _player_ ," Draco said, annoyed. The firewhiskey tray had been placed just out of his reach, and the shots were disappearing rapidly. Draco attempted to reach his wand, but it was in his pocket, and he couldn't even shift around, because Ngô and Potter were practically conversing in his lap. He tried a wandless _Accio_ , but he wasn't Potter and it didn't work.

"Right, right," Ngô said, waving a dismissive hand. "Saved the world from darkness and all that. Famous. Anyways, Potter, you really should-"

"I don't want to play for the majors," Potter said, looking horribly sheepish about the whole thing. "It's too much, erm, responsibility for me right now. I'm sorry for all the reporters- I know it's annoying-"

"Nonsense. S'good press," Ngô said. "Good for the Knickers-"

"Potter, hand me a whiskey before I scream, please."

"Would you actually scream?" Potter said, reaching out an arm. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"Let's not find out," Draco said, snatching the glass from his hand.

After the firewhiskey there were pints for everyone, and the group got even louder than was usual. Draco tuned out the we-won-a-match revelry and managed to pull out and unshrink his current book. Several rounds in, Draco felt Potter tap him on the shoulder.

"What?" Draco asked, not lifting his eyes from the page.

"You know that's a Muggle book, right?"

"Well, let's see," Draco said, making to set the book down and reconsidering when he saw how sticky the table was. "It doesn't bark or bite or growl, it isn't printed on parchment, the binding's this weird shoddy cheap kind, the cover is flexible and not stiff, and, most importantly, it's a book about Muggles doing Muggle things in the Muggle world and not a hint of magic, not even from this Gatsby fellow. So- _no_ , Potter, I had no bleeding _idea._ Thank Merlin you're here to infer things for me."

Potter- a younger Potter- would have been agitated by that much condescension all at once, but this current Potter only seemed amused. He _smiled_.

"Do y'have to read Muggle books for your... probation?" Potter asked, lowering his voice and speaking into Draco's ear. Potter smelled boozy and his speech was slightly slurred.

"You're pissed," Draco said, annoyed afresh at the cramped confines of the booth. Leanne and Van, the reserve Keeper who hardly ever spoke, were singing a Weird Sisters song in a round. The sounds they produced were so atonal that Potter's drunken voice, when he spoke again, was music by comparison.

"I'm allowed to get pissed tonight," Potter said, not arguing it. "My girlfriend's just said she's finished with me."

"The Weaslette?" Draco asked, feigning ignorance- he knew from _Witch Weekly_ that Potter was dating a Muggle girl who hadn't a clue about magic or how famous Potter was. It had been a favourite source of gossip in the papers for the past several weeks. "Did her fame finally eclipse your own, Potter? Is that why she got rid of-"

"Gin? No, that was ages ago," Potter said, amiably. Apparently Potter was too inebriated to take offense to anything, and he continued talking, his hands moving restlessly over the tabletop as he spoke.

"Ginny broke it off with me because everything felt weird after the war and then Foster broke it off with me because he thought my life was 'too exciting' and then Sarah because I wasn't exciting enough, I think, though she didn't say so, and then Maggie just today because she thought I was 'keeping things from her'. Which I was! I mean, er, I _had_ to because the law says I can't let on to a regular person about magic until we've moved _in_ together!" Potter said, getting more emphatic by the second.

"I take offense to the use of ' _regular person_ ' in lieu of _Muggle_ ," Draco said, but his mind was caught on _Foster_ and the pronoun _he_. Potter shagged blokes. Of course he did. There was no consistency to Potter, no pattern. Not a shred of the methodical. Potter often wore two different socks- and not by whimsical design. Just by accident. Potter would probably try loving anybody who was kind to him for thirty seconds. Potter probably didn't even grasp the concept of _gender_ and he probably had no fixed sexuality. Potter was all over the place.

"Well, they _are_ ," Potter said, waving across the table at Weasley until he was rewarded with a fresh pint. "You're the odd ones."

"You are aware that you're not actually a Muggle, right, Potter?" Draco asked, as Potter took a long drink. "You are, contrary to what your skill level suggests, a wizard. Really you are. I've seen you do magic with my very own eyes."

Potter lifted the glass to his lips, drank, and then- then offered him the pint wordlessly. Draco took it- after an awkward pause in which he had no idea what Potter was doing. Potter's hands were dotted with condensation from the glass, and Draco watched him wipe them together, slowly, until all the liquid was spread and dissipated. Then Draco sipped from the very rim of the glass, grimacing as he did it at the fact that he had just shared a pint with _Potter_.

It was an odd thing to do. Draco wasn't precisely sure why they'd done it. Just one of those little behavioral quirks that came out during alcohol consumption.

"You're pissed," Draco said again, when he raised his face and saw Potter holding out one expectant hand. The glass passed between them again, back to Potter. Draco felt weirdly embarrassed now- his ears prickled with heat.

"Anyhow you've... been left _four_ out of _four_ times," Draco said, looking away from Potter's uncomfortably open gaze and trying to regain the thread of the conversation. "There must be something dreadfully wrong with you. I would be concerned."

"Nah. I'm not that um... concerned," Potter said, smiling. "You're right, though, it's my fault, Malfoy... I'm just... attracted to these people who are, er... temperamental. These kind of brash sort of... uhhh.... headstrong... or... difficult people... and then we argue- but- you know I used to get so _angry_ but now I don't even mind it that much-"

"GET YOUR SORRY ARSES OUT OF THIS BOOTH RIGHT NOW! WEASLEY NEEDS THE TOILET AND I WON'T HAVE HIM VOMITING ON ME!" Leanne shouted, from across the table, and there was a tremendous racket as several drunk people attempted to quickly evacuate a confined space.

Eventually the team left in a noisy tangle, and they stood for a while in a group outside of the pub, about half of them smoking. Draco itched for a _Morgana's_ _Special_ , and squashed the urge. Potter didn't smoke, of course. Of course not.

"This Hooded Figure bloke is showing up again," Weasley said, struggling to refold a battered copy of the _Daily Prophet._ "Look, mate-"

"Hmmm," Potter said, holding a wavering finger above the indicated article. "Maybe you and Hermione and I should.... look into that?"

Potter was clearly aiming for a confidential whisper, but he had only managed to lower his voice from a shout to a regular conversational volume. The Knickers all crowded around him to stare at the paper, intrigued.

"The three of _you_ are going to hunt for the Hooded Figure? You don't think it's _You-Know-Who_?" Billie asked Potter, looking frightened, and Draco snorted.

"The Dark Lord is definitely dead," Draco said, and Potter nodded an affirmative.

" _So_ dead," Potter agreed, scratching his head. "Could be a supporter, thought? A rogue Death Eater nobody knew about?"

"I've got it! It's Malfoy," Weasley said, and laughed.

Draco felt his face heat up, and he grabbed the paper from Weasley.

"Shut it, Weasley. I've _read_ some of the Hooded Figure eyewitness accounts, and my probat- my Mr. Bashy told me about the rest. The Hooded Figure just shows up at random places in the dead of night and casts random spells on things. Levitating trolleys at King's Cross at three a.m. or moving some chairs about past midnight in Diagon Alley doesn't sound terribly evil to me-"

"Oooh, his- his 'Mr. Barshy'," Weasley said, giggling. He swiped at the paper, and Draco turned quickly away, reading it. "Is it love for you, then, Malfoy?"

"It's Bashy. And _no_ , moron, she's my- ah, liaison from the Wizengamot," Draco said.

"It's driving the DMLE mad, though," Vienne offered, looking over Draco's shoulder. "They can't catch the bloke, and he's _not_ subtle- they've had to Obliviate like fifty Muggles this year on account of him-"

Draco handed the paper off, gave in to his lesser instincts, and took a cigarette off of Van. Potter watched him as he lit it, the paper seemingly forgotten.

"Speaking of ' _Hooded Figures'_ \- you know what we need," Ngô said, speaking around an enormous cigar that stank like a forest fire, "We need uniforms. Potter's bringing in all these reporters, and we look tatty as all hell. It's not good form, Vienne, it really isn't."

"Come up with the dosh, darling, and I'll wear whatever awful thing your heart desires," Vienne said, taking the cigar from his mouth to puff on it.

"Yes! Uniforms! The Prats have uniforms! We should get some!" Weasley exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air and wobbling with every movement. "We could start a fund or a- my _other_ best mate, I mean the one I shag, not Harry- I mean my girlfriend- she's really good at fundraising and organizing and pamphlets and stuff like that, really really good-"

"Everyone knows who Granger is," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "She's come to matches. They all read the bloody news. Also all of our house elves are _unionized_ now, thanks to her-"

"I've no idea what a Granger is," Vienne said, and Ngô shrugged, nodding agreement with her.

"Uniforms," Ngô muttered, touching a hand to his chin. "Should look into that."

Potter, standing near to Draco, was swaying back and forth a little.

"D'ya need to side-along with someone?" Potter asked. "I know you can't apparate. Crawley didn't have anything to drink-"

"I can manage on my own, thank you," Draco snapped, covering his embarrassment. He hadn't realized that Potter had noticed his suspended license.

"Alright. Um. Have a good night, Malfoy," Potter said.

Draco ended up walking home. It took three-quarters of an hour, and normally he _would_ have gone with whoever'd stayed sober, but he couldn't bring himself to do it after Potter had asked after him like that.

 _You should be used to Potter spying on you by now_ , Draco told himself. It was uncomfortable, to have Potter always watching him- but familiar. The indifference had been much worse.

  


 

* * *

 

  


The following day Draco had a brilliant idea. He'd finished with the sad book about the Gatsby fellow had been mulling over the talk of uniforms while he read a new selection; Bashy was on a horror genre kick, and she'd brought him _The Shining_ and _The Haunting of Hill House_ and a bunch of others. Muggles, Draco concluded, were hilariously terrified of ghosts. Although in some cases their literary ghosts seemed to be nothing so much as slow-acting Dementors, kissing a protagonist for months instead of moments, and leaving, at the end, a shell of a body with nothing at all inside it. Perhaps it was that the Muggles _were_ scared of Dementors, in some oblique, barely-understood way, and they simply called them 'ghosts' instead.

When the year of no-direct-visitation with his parents was over, Draco had been rather confused at the revelation that he still, even when he was in the very same room with the man, missed his father. Eventually he pinned it down- he missed the stern but affectionate man who had spoilt him awfully and loved him ostentatiously and who had disappeared entirely around Draco's fourth year at Hogwarts. That Lucius Malfoy had gone forever, replaced by a grim, distracted, obsequious person who had little time for anything but the Dark Lord. Now the Dark Lord was gone, but Lucius Malfoy had not come back.

The Malfoys were not wanted anywhere: wizardkind shunned them. There could have been some respite, some niche carved out amongst the remnants of old society- pureblooded families with relatives gone to Azkaban, who huddled together at fancy-dress parties and luncheons, trying to pretend that everything was the same. Those people- their peers- wanted nothing to do with the Malfoys either. They were traitors on both sides, trusted by nobody. Draco's father had nothing to do- no boards to sit on, no worlds to conquer, no shadowy power to stand behind, his face covered. Oh, in many ways he was still the same: he inquired after Draco too frequently, treating Draco's small triumphs as his own- he still looked at Draco's mother with that curious mix of love and beguilement, and called her 'Cissa' in deep, affectionate tones if she said something he found particularly cutting or amusing. But he was like a Muggle's idea of a ghost- present for a moment, fading away into another room, not answering if you asked: "Who's there?"

 _I can't just ask father to buy uniforms for everybody on the team,_ Draco thought, setting down a book and surveying his flat. _Potter and Weasley wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I did that, they'd bring up school- and I don't want father to have to pay for anything the two of_ them _would wear, anyways-_

Draco sometimes rejected Bashy books outright- not giving them back- but refusing to read them, either. He had a special shelf for the reject pile- things he found so stupid or so offensive that he could not believe Bashy had the gall to bring them. As he thought, his eyes drifted over the shelf: _Is Your Child A Bully?_ was prominently featured there, never opened, and some stupid book about a seagull named Jonathan with black and white, unmoving photographs that Draco had flipped through once and tossed aside in disgust. Children's books- which Bashy kept bringing him despite what he'd said, went there- _James and the Giant Peach_ was one of the sillier looking ones- _The Velveteen Rabbit_ \- he'd stuffed _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ there because he already had a copy, didn't Bashy know _everybody_ had that?

 _Mrs.Prettywit's Practical Dreamspells For Self-Healing_ had gotten shelved in the no-read area, because a) it looked like something Luna Lovegood would read religiously, and b) it was covered in jam and felt unbearably sticky to the touch every time Draco tried to open it. _Hope From Within: A Guidebook for The Children of Malignant Narcissists_ ,by Drs. Kay and John LeBrondeau, was hidden nearly in the back. Draco had initially worried that the title was a jab at his mother's name. And there was, inexplicably, a book called _Arts & Crafts the Muggle Way_. This Draco crossed the room and picked up, idly scratching at his left forearm.

Bashy had left a bookmark in the crafting book- a little drawing of an opossum in specs that winked at you and changed colour when you touched it. Draco left his eyes drift over the page that had been marked, and thought, suddenly, of patches.

Patches! He wouldn't buy uniforms- but making a patch with an insignia for the Knickers wouldn't get him ridiculed, it would be fun- and it would pull them all together, sort of... unify the look of things.

Draco went to Fiona's Fabulous Fabrics and bought bunches of self-replenishing gold and silver cloth that shimmered in the light, thread that glittered, and beads that were charmed to move. He sketched inky designs on parchment for a full day, enjoying the new-old pleasure of creating something. It had been ages since he'd made anything besides hair potions, and he mused over his own marvelously artistic temperament as he drew.

Mr. Bashy came for a visit while Draco was working on his design, and he showed her with some pleasure. He had turned one 'K' backwards, so that the whole emblem resembled an hourglass. Then Draco had refined it until the two 'K's were connected by a single central line, gold pressed against silver.

"The charmed beads will move through to the bottom of the left side- like sand- and come up through the top of the right side- sand through an hourglass. See?" Draco asked, showing Mr. Bashy.

"I love it," Bashy proclaimed, tilting the sketches this way and that. "I didn't know you could do this sort of thing. Speaking of your skills, Marc used that hair potion you gave me. He said it works better for him than Sleekeazy's, even."

"That's because I'm incredibly gifted at making potions," Draco answered, flipping through the index of a spellbook until he found the page for sewing charms.

"You should sell those hair potions," Mr. Bashy advised. "I mean it. With your flair for 'entrepreneurial enterprises'."

Draco rolled his eyes. Bashy was always encouraging him to do this or that. The woman was irrepressibly full of ideas about things Draco should do.

"Why don't _you_ start your own business, Bashy," Draco answered, looking idly at a spell. "You can open a used bookshop. Open it right here, out of my flat, seeing as how it's beginning to resemble one."

"Ha-very-much," Mr. Bashy said, dryly. "Oh- did you like _The Great Gatsby_?"

"Not even a little," Draco said. "That whinging narrator should have gone and kissed Gatsby and kept him from shagging the married cousin and dying in the first place, seeing as how he was pining away for him so awfully."

"You think... uh... Nick was in love with Gatsby?" Mr. Bashy asked, sounding incredulous. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, it was obvious, wasn't it?" Draco answered. "All that _talking_ about him, constantly going on about him and how bloody _special_ he was, until I wanted to pull my own hair out-"

"Umm-hmm. Okay. Alright," Mr.Bashy said, appearing to have discarded the subject. "In other news, how was Quidditch this week?"

"Fine. No, annoying," Draco corrected. "I blame you, Bashy, for making me do 'pastimes' in the first place. There are reporters crawling all over us at every game, because of stupid Potter and his stupid fame, and every time we win there are fifty articles about how we won only because of _Potter_ , how _special_ he is, like nobody gives a hang about anybody else on the team, and I'm tired of it. I had to practically shield the stupid git with my _body_ when we were leaving the last match, and he's so pathetically _sorry_ for all of it, which is probably an act, he's certainly loving it-"

"Ummm-hmmm," Mr.Bashy said, scribbling something down.

Eventually Bashy left and Draco was afforded the peace he needed to work on his sewing charms. He made the patch large, to go on the back of player's cloaks or across their chests, wherever, and he made sure it caught the light, the beads moving and shimmering like sand. Draco felt afresh a swell of satisfaction when he looked at his first prototype patch: The Knockturn Knickers and their hourglasses of doom, spelling out for certain that the opposing team's time was up!

Draco even brought his project with him to Fern's cinema, where he planned to 'stitch the Muggle way', but actually using the needle by hand was very difficult and he stabbed himself twice before giving up for the duration. At home he worked furiously until it was perfect, set a replicating spell for thirty patches, loads more than he needed, and let the spell toil while he slept.

On the morning of practice day, Draco woke up to hundreds of patches filling his sitting room. The spell's stopping mechanism hadn't worked, and Draco's extravagant self-replenishing fabric purchases had a downside- the materials _still_ hadn't run out. He cancelled the spell quickly and glared around in dismay at the patches covering every available surface of his flat. There were patches in the cupboards and in the toilet, patches underneath Draco's bed and patches in the pockets of all of his robes.

"Oh, sod it," Draco said, after a quarter of an hour vanishing the things- and he filled a satchel with a whole bunch of the shiniest ones and ran out the door.

  


* * *

  


  


Draco felt the purest form of excitement as he approached the courtyard where the Knickers held practice. His patches were flawless, perfect, the exact sort of thing that would give the team a unified look. Ngô would love them, the tattiness factor of the team would be reduced exponentially, and Potter would be suitably impressed. Draco was reaching for a patch when he stepped onto the courtyard- and he paused, taking in the scene before him.

Everyone was wearing matching uniforms. There was excited chatter- Crawley was pulling a black cloak over her huge shoulders, Leanne fixing her kneepads in a mirror charm, Weasley looking like the happiest git in creation as he pulled a glossy new Keeper's vest over his shoulders. The uniforms were a thick, shining black material, accented by red stitching and the finest, silkiest looking cloaks.

Draco stood still for a moment, still clutching his bag, feeling a little sick and very, very stupid.

"Potter's generously provided us all with new uniforms!" Ngô said, by way of greeting. "Malfoy, you're late! Go and try this on!"

"These are _excellent_ , mate," Weasley said, and Potter appeared from the swirl of people, looking a little sheepish.

"I thought- everyone was complaining about it, so I thought," Potter said- beginning one of his limping, tedious explanations about why he loved to ruin everything. People were listening to Potter, cheering him on, being ever-so-pleased with him. Draco numbly accepted the uniform that Ngô held out, and walked towards the changing tent, still carrying his satchel of stupid, ugly, laughably homemade-looking patches.

It was fine, Draco thought, as he pulled on his new uniform. That was fine. It wasn't as if he was going to show anybody the patches _now_ , because they were poorly done and the gold and silver would clash awfully with the red stitching that Potter had- of _course_ \- picked out. It was fine, Just a bit of wasted effort, but really, it was better that Draco hadn't gotten a chance to embarrass himself by showing off the shoddy things. It was better.

"Hey Malfoy," Potter said, and Draco turned sharply. Potter was behind him, stripping out of his regular clothing.

"Mmm? Oh, Potter," Draco muttered, turning away abruptly. Even the boots and the gloves were well-made, heavy but more flexible than the secondhand, mismatched ones that the team had been playing with.

"D'ya like these? I don't have good taste for, um, clothing and stuff, I was actually gonna ask you-"

"Yes. They're great. Everything you do is ever so amazing," Draco said, feeling a stupid lump of anger and disappointment rise in his throat. Potter clearly didn't notice Draco's mood, however, because he kept talking.

"Hey- something fell out of your bag-" Potter said, and he leaned down. Draco bent quickly and made to grab for it first, but it was too late- Potter was already holding one of the patches aloft. Draco felt his stomach twist unpleasantly, and he braced himself for a disparaging comment.

"Oh- that's cool," Potter said, turning the patch this way and that. "The moving beads- Malfoy- where'd you get these?"

"Give it back," Draco said, grabbing for the patch, but Potter turned away from him, still holding it aloft.

"These have got to go on our uniforms," Potter declared. "They're perfect. None of the other minor-minor teams have an emblem half as cool. Where'd you even get them?"

"I.... made them," Draco admitted, taking advantage of Potter's distraction to pull the patch from his hand.

" _You_ made these? Oh, well," Potter said, smiling, "Forget everything I said, then. They're rubbish."

"They're much better than anything you could have managed, I'm sure," Draco said. He could feel himself smiling, answering Potter's expression. "But there's nothing for it, Potter. They'll clash with that hideous red stitching that you picked for the uniforms."

"Don't be a git, Malfoy, red goes with everything, that's why I picked it," Potter said. Then Potter picked up Draco's bag and ambled out into the sunshine, where he displayed the patches with as much pride as if he had made them himself. Draco made certain that everyone knew Potter hadn't created the patches at all- but the team oohed and ahhed anyways, and used permanent sticking charms to affix the hourglasses to their robes. In the end the effect was rather good, red stitching and all, and Ngô lined them all up for a picture.

"Say _Knockturn Knickers_! Ngô commanded.

In the picture Draco was standing next to Potter. The frame looped for six seconds: the whole team yelled _Knockturn Knickers!_ \- and then most of them clearly broke into laughter or cheers. Potter, however, only looked over at Draco, who elbowed him in the ribs and laughed. Then the picture looped again.

Draco got a copy and put it on his wall, between a picture of the 1992 Slytherin Quidditch team, all holding Nimbus 2001 broomsticks, and a picture of Vince, Greg, and Pansy from fourth year. Draco watched the Knickers photo loop more often than he strictly needed to, but- it was a good picture of him. He looked better than he had since he was sixteen.

 _Life is easier now_ , Draco thought, watching his photo-self elbow Potter in the ribs. Then his gaze slipped over to the photo with Vince in it and he felt an abrupt sadness.

 _Mostly easier,_ Draco amended. _Still difficult sometimes._

  


 

* * *

 

  


When the Knickers qualified for the 2001 Spring Minor-Minor Championships, Ngô took them all out to celebrate at Sumeragi & Brindleweld's Karaoke Kalamity.

"Our second year in a row," Ngô said, over a pint, with tears- actual tears- shining in his eyes. "We'll take the trophy again this year, I know it. We've got an unstoppable lineup."

Vienne Ngô, Draco saw, was looking at her husband with what could only be categorized as adoration. _They're both mad_ , Draco thought- but he felt a little thrill about the tournament just the same. Weasley was grinning, and he caught Draco's eye and smiled- impossibly- even wider.

"I'd like to thank Potter, for being spectacular," Ngô said, raising his glass- "Leanne- for _minding her manners_ this season and being the best Beater a man could ask for- Billie for the match with Kilgallen- and Malfoy. He doesn't want to play Chaser but he's damned good at it. Couldn't have done it without you, Malfoy-"

"And Ron, for doing the oddest saves of any Keeper I've ever seen!" Vienne said, and everybody chuckled. "Ron, you're damned impressive!"

"Especially when he can manage to keep it together," Ngô amended, gruffly. "Weasley, are you managing your stress?"

"Yes, sir," Weasley said, looking sheepish, and everybody broke up into laughter again.

  


* * *

  


Draco loved the thing with Weasley. Ngô had decided that Weasley 'took it too much to heart and it affected his playing" -which was the pot calling the kettle to a degree Draco had never seen before in life. Ngô had produced a little rubbery thing- it looked the Muggle idea of a space alien, with blue eyes and red ears. It fit into the palm of one's hand, and when you squeezed it, the eyes and ears would pop out comically.

"This is called Bug Out Bob," Ngô had said, sagely, as the team passed the thing around. Draco and Potter took turns squeezing it.

"My cousin had one of these," Potter said, but then Ngô took it away from him and handed it to Weasley.

"You are to squeeze Bug Out Bob... two-hundred an' fifty times before _every_ match, Weasley," Ngô said. "Practices too. I won't have you falling apart like you did last week. The Keeper is the lynchpin of the team. _You. Need. To. Manage your stress_!"

"Oh, yes, _shout_ at the Weasel, that'll improve his performance," Draco muttered, just low enough for Potter to hear him.

"Honestly," Potter whispered, leaning into Draco's space, "Ron usually does need to, er, 'manage his stress'. And people- Muggles- do call that thing a 'stress toy', or a 'stress ball', or something."

"Muggle magic is called _psychology_ ," Draco said, and Potter gave him a quizzical look.

"You think Muggles have magic now?" Potter asked, looking at Draco with curious intensity.

"A sort of homegrown magic, made clumsily, to help people with sorting out their difficulties," Draco said, stiffly. He didn't want Potter to think him foolish, and Potter was wearing the most indecipherable expression- "But yes."

"St. Mungo's has therapists though, yeah?" Potter asked, and Draco nodded.

"Yes, but. _Trust_ me, Potter, I probably know much more about this than you. I've lately read quite a few books on the subject. The Muggles actually take these things much more to heart. They work harder at it. They don't know about magic, you see, so they all think that their own thoughts are creating their destinies. They think they're shaping their own _realities_ , or something, and that if they change how they think they can change their own lives. Sort out your problems and sort out the universe."

"You don't think that's true?" Potter asked. "I mean- anyone can change their own fate, right?"

"Could _you_?" Draco asked.

For a second Potter looked lost. Draco had only seen him wear that expression a very few times- Potter's lips pressed together, his face inclined downwards, so that behind his specs his lashes covered his eyes, his brow furrowed. His scar seemed to be the most alive thing on his whole face in that instant- it was sharper than any features, any expression, could have ever been.

Then Potter looked up. "Yes. I think so," Potter said, firmly. "After all, if _you_ could manage it, I'm sure I could-"

"Well, I think the Muggles are correct, actually," Draco said, fixing his robes for an excuse to look away from Potter's stare.

"But you just-"

"Don't tell my father I said I thought Muggles could be correct about anything," Draco added, quickly.

"During our many conversations?" Potter asked, inclining his head. "I promise to leave it out."

"He's actually quite a charming conversationalist," Draco said, matching Potter's look. "I'm sure you'll have so many things to discuss that it won't even come up."

"Too bad you didn't inherit all that charm," Potter said, and Draco felt a funny thrill in his stomach at the way they tossed the conversation back and forth.

"I have my own charms, Potter," Draco answered, wondering why on earth he was saying such a thing in such a tone of voice. "Obviously."

"Right. And that- that kind of Muggle- uh, Muggle _loving_ sentiment-"

"Will be the one thing my father doesn't hear about," Draco said, stifling a smirk. "Ever."

"My father doesn't hear about-" Potter repeated- and then he broke into a grin. " Malfoy- ' _My father will hear about this'_ \- do you have _any_ idea how often you used to say th-"

"Potter! Malfoy! Stop conferencing and get to flying!" Ngô interjected, making Draco startle in surprise.

"Sorry, Captain," Potter said, easily, and he turned away. "Ron! Can I hold Bob?"

"No!" Weasley shouted back. "I need to hold him! I think he- I think he might be good luck!"

  


 

* * *

 

  


At the Karaoke Kalamity, Weasley, still riding the wave of merriment, pulled Bug Out Bob from his robes and prompted everyone to laugh harder.

"Next round's on me!" Leanne said, provoking cheers, "Now who'll sing first?"

The team had picked a crowded public room that had Grumpy Karaoke- which meant that green slime, not dangerous to the skin but still smelling a bit like bubotuber pus- would appear from the ceiling and pour all over the people on stage if anyone stopped singing or went out-of-tune for more than three measures. The slime stuck to you like the devil and couldn't be removed by charms or scrubbing for a full hour. Naturally Draco was not planning on taking a turn at singing.

Billie went first and got slimed- Van went second and didn't. Crawley- who never drank- crossed her massive arms and refused to sing unless they had Celestina Warbeck somewhere in the library of records for the massive gramophone- which of course they did. Then she shocked everyone nearly to death by singing a flawless rendition of ' _Beat Back those Bludgers, Boy, And Chuck That Quaffle Here'_ without so much as a glance at the floating lyrics that appeared at the forefront of the stage.

Weasley and Ngô sang a Weird Sisters song badly, got slimed, and then the team was shouted at by another group that they were taking all the turns, and to let somebody _else_ go for a change, and then Ngô nearly got into a fight with the other group, and Draco found himself, after the ruckus had died down, sitting next to Potter, laughing helplessly, his hands covered in slime from helping five or six other people hold Ngô back.

"This- this is the worst thing I've ever done, why on earth didn't we do a regular pub night?" Draco asked, trying to sound cross. The laughter made it a bit less convincing, Draco thought, but his sentiment was sincere. It _was_ stupid even if it was great fun.

"I don't know," Potter said, his brow creasing- "but I think I'm going to get slimed. I can't really sing at all."

"Merlin, Potter, there's something you aren't perfect at?" Draco asked, laying on the sarcasm thicker than ton-tongue toffee. "I'll alert the press. We're doomed without the Chosen One, you know. In fact I think I'll just take my own life right now and spare myself the pain-"

"Alerting the press is something you're awfully good at, Malfoy," Potter said- but he was grinning again, he had been smiling that way a lot lately-

"Ahh! They have Muggle songs! Someone who knows Muggle music get up here and sing with me!" Vienne said.

"Oh no," Potter muttered, trying to hide his face.

"Leanne! Potter! That's you two, get _up_ here," Vienne insisted, and Potter sighed, drained the rest of his pint, and shuffled over to the stage amidst the shouts of the team.

Draco listened, sipping idly from his glass, as they argued about beetles and spicy girls. Potter claimed he knew a few beetle songs but not any of the spicy ones, Leanne said that had to be a lie and then asked Potter to 'tell me what you want, what you really-really want', which seemed like a bizarre thing to say, and Potter agreed that he did, in fact, know some of the spicy stuff. Then Vienne gasped.

"Oh! Look! You two must know this one, it's classic," Vienne said, showing them a gramophone record, and Leanne nodded.

"Oh, that takes me _back_ ," Leanne said.

"Eurgh," Potter groaned. "Gross. My aunt used to sing that to my cousin."

"Alright, here we go," Vienne said, setting the record, and a simple sort of melody started to play.

Draco watched with rapt attention as the three of them started to sing. Potter shuffled uncomfortably on the far side of the stage, staring at the lyrics that appeared in the air as if they could save him.

" _Why do birds suddenly appear? Every time you are near-_

_Just like me, they long to be_

_Close to you-"_

The three of them sang- Leanne was alright enough, and Draco could barely hear Vienne- but Potter was _awful_. He sang too loudly, off-key and stop-stuttering, and by the end of the first verse the green slime was already ominously beginning to form over his head.

"You're gonna get slimed, mate! Pick it up!" Weasley yelled, and Potter looked upwards with alarm, and then seemed to redouble his efforts.

  


" _Why do stars fall down from the sky? Every time you walk by-_

 _Just like me, they long to be- close to you,"_ The three of them sang, but Draco only had eyes for Potter, who suddenly looked directly at him. Then Leanne looked at Draco as well, with a smile on her face as she sang- and she pointed at Draco, who pointed back in bewilderment.

"What?" Draco asked, but then Vienne nodded, and pointed at Draco as well.

" _What_?" Draco yelled, over the noise.

" _On the day that you were born, the angels got together,_ _and decided to create a dream come true_ -" they sang, and Leanne elbowed Potter, who laughed, and added his hand. Now they were all serenading Draco, who stared back at them in bewilderment.

 _"So they sprinkled moondust in your hair of gold and starlight in your eyes of blue_ -" they sang, and Draco, in sudden understanding, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled at them.

  
"My eyes are _grey_ , you tossers! Very poor work of romancing me!"

Leanne laughed at that- so long and so loudly that she was slimed, in the most terrible fashion, and she emitted a stunningly high-pitched scream, which started _Vienne_ laughing. Vienne couldn't pull it together- she had gone on a laughing jag- and soon she was slimed as well, leaving only tone-deaf Potter, who was still singing with all his might. Looking straight at Draco.

  


_"A-and that is why all the girls in town...._ shite- uh,f- _follow you all around_ ," Potter sang. A tendril of slime came low enough to graze Potter's shoulder, but he ignored it- and kept his eyes fixed on Draco. _"Just like me, they long to be close to you-"_

Potter singing to him, in front of all the Knickers and loads of strangers besides, gave Draco the oddest feeling in his chest. It felt like the Great Hall. It felt like they were _sitting_ in the Great Hall, at Hogwarts, and no time had passed, and Dumbledore could've easily been just a glance away, and Professor Snape, alive and well, ready to take a thousand points from Gryffindor if Potter so much as breathed wrongly, and-

" _On the day that you were born, the angels got together, and decided to create a dream come true-"_ Potter intoned, and something twisted in Draco's stomach.

-and all the people who had died were alive and school had gone like it was supposed to, always supposed to, no Dark Lords and no wars, and he and Potter could have been- could maybe have been friends-

 _"So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold and starlight in your eyes of blue,"_ Potter warbled, bouncing back and forth next to the gramophone-

"You can do it, Harry! You've gotta be nearly through by now!" Weasley called.

Draco felt something heavy and painful in his chest. An echo of something. Another time that he had looked at Potter, from across a room, and he had felt something terrible and frightening come over him- and he- he had pushed it down, had buried it because it was not something he could _ever think about_ , not then and not _ever again_ -

"Mary," said a witch from another table, "I think that bloke who can't sing is Harry Potter!"

"No, I don't think so," said Mary, whoever she was, and Draco stared at Potter. People sometimes wouldn't move out of the way of hexes that could have easily been dodged- you saw it all the time in dueling practise- and Draco felt that strange paralysis now. His heart was racing. He felt like suddenly some vast chasm was rushing up towards him, on this ordinary night in this ordinary place, and how could no one else _feel_ it? Why didn't they run, scream, draw their wands, try to save themselves?

" _And that is why all the girls in town- follow you all around-_ " Potter sang- and Draco staggered to his feet, tore his eyes away from Potter, and ran for the lavatory. As he passed the doors, he heard groans from the Knickers.

"Ah! You were so close!" Weasley called- but the singing had stopped, the music had stopped, and Potter clearly hadn't made it.

  


* * *

  


_Never, never, never, never,_ Draco thought, as he stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. He splashed tap water over his face, wincing at the chill of it, and took long, shuddering breaths. _Never never never._

Draco felt a very real fear- war-fear, battle-fear even- compressing his chest, and he tried to fix his robes with hands that shook.

"It's nothing," Draco told his reflection, staring into his own startled eyes. He looked like someone who had been struck dead about ten minutes previous: a walking corpse, a ghost.

The thing- the _worst_ thing about it was... it was not a _new_ fear. This fear was old: a fear deferred- as if Draco had felt it once, years ago, and put it away in a little box inside of himself. But now the box was opened, and the old fear that had sat hidden in his chest and lived silently within him demanded to be felt afresh. Behind the fear was a truth, and Draco tried to look away from it before he understood-

_"Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!"_

-all of the things-

_"Why didn't you tell her? Bellatrix. You knew it was me. You didn't say anything."_

-that he didn't-

" _You’ve picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riff-raff like this! Too late now, Potter!"_

-want to understand.

_"You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there..."_

  


Draco pressed his fingers to his temples. "Too late now," he said.

Draco stood alone, watching himself in the filthy mirror in the sad little bathroom behind the Karaoke Kalamity. He thought about his father and about the dead, thought about Muggles and blood and the first day he had ever seen a skinny little wizard with bright green eyes in Madam Malkin's robe shop, and how the boy hadn't really interested him that much at all. Draco stood and thought about Potter, smiling and showing everyone the patches Draco had made for the Knickers, and he thought about an offered hand that had been refused, and of how he'd failed, and failed, and failed again, and of how he hadn't ever been able to save himself, and how he had needed others to save him.

"Too late now," Draco said aloud, and laughed.

Because he was in love with Harry Potter.


End file.
